


Baby, Come Home

by naotoshirogane



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, BPD, Connor Murphy (Dear Evan Hansen) Has BPD, Depression, Drugs, Gen, Graphic Description, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Overdosing, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-13 15:43:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18034493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naotoshirogane/pseuds/naotoshirogane
Summary: Connor Murphy wants to die. His hands tremble as he grabs the bottle on the bathroom counter. What could stop him?Oneshots of Connor attempting (and sometimes succeeding) to kill himself.





	1. No One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Connor Murphy has no one to stop him.

The first thing Connor became aware of was that his hands were shaking as he cradled the bottle of pills. Whether it was from anger or fear, he didn’t know.

 

He didn’t want to know.

 

It wasn’t as if this wasn’t a long time coming. No, he’d been craving this for months, years- today was just the final straw. The camel’s back could only hold so much. Funny; even a camel had more use than Connor. The thought tasted bitter on his tongue, unspoken self-loathing surging up once again.

 

Everyone would be happier this way.

 

Especially that fucking Evan Hansen. Jared Kleinman. Zoe, who everybody loved. He had seen her.  _ Comforting _ the fucker that laughed at him. Connor had left before she could start laughing with him, rage bubbling up in his gut. As the day progressed, however… well. Maybe he shouldn’t have jumped so quickly to assumptions, or so he had thought. He’d go apologize to that Evan kid, maybe make this year salvageable. Maybe.

 

He had gotten as far as signing his stupid cast when the mocking letter met his eyes. If there was a specific straw that was far too much, the letter would be it. It burned a hole in his back pocket for the rest of the day. Even as he was staring himself down in the mirror, it curved to the bend of his jeans.

 

Connor took a deep breath and looked down at the bottle.

 

It was one of those big motherfuckers. The doctors thought that if they gave him higher doses, it might work. Spoiler alert: it didn’t. Connor was too much of a fuckup for antidepressants to work. It wasn’t just Zoloft in his bottle, though, of course not. There was a solid amount of them, coupled with some leftover Adderall he forgot to get high off of, some Ibuprofen, and sleeping pills he stole from his mom.

 

He realized with a pang that she’d probably miss her pills more than she’d miss him.

 

Again, he checked to make sure the door was locked securely. He’d already done that three times, but he definitely wasn’t stalling. There was nothing to stall for anymore. Perhaps in another life, one where he actually had people that cared about him, he’d agonize more over this decision.

 

Now, though, he was only concerned about how badly it would hurt.

 

That’s what the sleeping pills were for. Coupled with a bottle of vodka- stolen, again, because he couldn’t go out without fucking everyone’s life up one last time- he would probably pass out before his insides began to eat themself.

 

His parents wouldn’t be home for at least another hour. Zoe was off school now too, but she always made a point to avoid him for a while after school. Everything was perfect. He just had to… do it.

 

Connor couldn’t help but laugh.

 

It was hollow-sounding, even to him.

 

Step one. Lowering himself into the empty tub was simple enough.

 

Step two. He put the bottle of vodka to his lips and took a swig.

 

Step three. Take a handful of his pills. Swallow them. Finish them.

 

Step four? Lay back and relax. It would probably make this quicker.

 

As Connor drifted off, he thought about how sad it was that whoever found him would have to see the trail of dried tears down his cheeks.


	2. Almost Zoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Connor was just starting to have Zoe to stop him.

By the time Connor slammed the bathroom door shut, he was still fuming with rage.

 

Things were starting to be _good_. Or, if not good, then _better_. He could be in the same room as Zoe without it devolving into a screaming match. They could even have a conversation together- he thought things were improving. Things were supposed to be improving. They, the patented Murphy siblings, were supposed to be _improving_.

 

He shouldn’t have been so fucking naive.

 

Chest heaving, he fumbled the lock, finally securing it tightly. He had ran from his truck into the house- the truck that he was supposed to drive Zoe home from school with. She’d have to find her own damn way back. As if he’d do a single fucking thing for her, now. He’d never do anything for her ever again. He’d never do anything for anyone ever again.

 

Except giving them what they’ve all been waiting with bated breath for.

 

Emotions high, Connor hadn’t had time to make a solid plan. He was too riled up to think straight, and the only thing he knew was that he had to do it, and now. Right now. With shaky hands, he tore through bathroom cupboards until he found his target: his razor. He snapped the head easily, gingerly holding the released blade between his trembling digits.

 

Fuck. Was this really happening?

 

Before he had a chance to really consider the consequences of what he was about to do, his mind flashed back to the day at school, reigniting his boiling temper. First, that fucker laughed at him- he couldn’t even remember his name, not right now- and Connor couldn’t help but shove him to the floor. Regret was pretty instant, and he spared a guilty glance to Zoe before he fled the scene. She’d take care of it. He thought she’d fucking take care of it. She knew he wasn’t good with words, she fucking _knew_ that.

 

Oh, she took care of it, alright.

 

The letter in the lab confirmed Connor’s worst insecurities, his paranoia. They worked together to fuck him up. They planned it. His sister, and him- Evan?- conspired on a letter made specifically to destroy him. And, most infuriating of all, it worked. The hope, the trust, he had started to pin on Zoe: she knew. And she was fucking mocking him with that loser with a broken arm? Who couldn’t even say a full sentence? Who he had never really met before?

 

Before he knew it, the razor was biting into his wrist. Well, fuck, he had wanted to plan a bit more than that.

 

It hadn’t gone too deep, though, mostly just a show of his own frustration. With a shaky exhale, Connor turned the taps on the tub, climbing in himself. He’d… well. He’d done his research. Of course he had. Hot water to help the incisions from closing. He wasn’t stupid.

 

He didn’t want to fail. He’d already done enough of that in his life.

 

Once the water was circling his belly button, he turned the taps off, letting the heat relax his muscles. This was going to hurt. Fuck. He just had to… do it. Gripping the blade in his left hand, he made quick work of his right arm, then switched hands and did the same to his left. By the time he was done, dropping the razor into the tub, the water was murky with his own rapidly flowing blood.

 

He was right. It did hurt. It hurt so fucking bad.

 

Distantly, as the water grew redder and redder, Connor wondered if he should have left a note. Like the one Zoe left for him with Evan. He wanted her to hurt like he was hurting. It was far too late for that now, though, so he simply sunk deeper into the water and let it take him away.

 

His last thought before he lost consciousness was that he wished things could have been different.


End file.
